Living since the day I was born,

Dying until the day I'm dead,

And in the interim, it is and has always been, a still-life of what's in my head.

My birthday was the day I packed up, and moved into this studio called my body.

This studio has two windows, from which, my soul peers around in.

My soul peers around in this studio, from which, little ideas keep pouring out of little cardboard boxes.

And no one ever locks it, this soul studio in here, because everything's an idea, so there's not a thing to fear.

And no one ever stocks it, since there really is no need, every canvas here is treated with persepective and respect.

The windows never drape to anything that could be called a project.

This space is protection, and pro-recreation, but among the pros, are the cons like the conscience. 

This little voice here calls for more, it wonders what these hands are for.

Can they sketch or draw or paint?

Is there a place for little ideas from labeless boxes, that join together to make big projects?

I've been told many times that there ain't.

Can they write or storytell?

A life without is certain hell.

but there isn't a thing else that this soul will do.

Without art, these windows and doors grow mildew.

So from inside these windows, and from this day forth, every tear will be in watercolored.

Ev'ry tear shed, ev'ry blood red, ev'ry small sweat, is a side effect of someone in this studio, unpacking labeless boxes.

Living since the day I was born, but only alive when this soul-tenant's art takes form.